


This Time

by synchronik



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim and Stew reconnect while the Giants are in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is a standalone and is not related to Journeyman or The Game In Front of You.

Tim feels the hand on his hip and knows who it is before he hears the voice behind him.

"Welcome to New York," Chris Stewart says, grinning.

"Stew!" The hug is one-armed and involves shoulder patting, a bro hug, but Tim can't stop smiling. He hasn't missed Stewart in a while, since before the World Series last year, actually, but looking up at him Tim feels the loss all over again, like a jab to the gut. 

"Hey Timmy, how ya been? I like the hair." 

Tim touches the back of his neck reflexively. "Yeah, it was time for a change, you know..." He trails off. "You in tonight?"

"No, thank god. I don't have to face the Freak."

"You'd probably hit a home run you know me so well," Tim says. It had been so hard. One day, Stew had been there, getting ready to back up Posey for the season, and the next day he was gone, all the way to the other side of the country, and Tim was left to try to figure out Hector Sanchez while Hector was trying to figure out catching. 

"Yeah, right." Stewart laughs. He smile is the same slanting smile Tim remembers from so many hours in the clubhouse. "Good luck out there tonight." He slaps Tim's shoulder.

"Thanks." He watches as Stew heads off down the hallway, all legs and slim shoulders. "Hey! I don't suppose you could pass me the signs!"

Stew turns, walking backward. "I know three people who could hide your body, Lincecum," he says, pointing. "Don't make me call them."

* * *

The game almost goes well. Almost. That's the story of this fucking season. Everything works until it just _stops_ working, and then they lose. Tim grits his teeth through the interviews--what's he gonna say? That it's his fault that the bases were loaded? That he blames Kontos for running into A-Roid? That he desperately wants to re-sign with San Francisco and he'll take whatever money they want to give him if they don't send him away?--and gets on the bus as soon as fucking possible. He just wants his room and room service and no one around him for, like, four days.

"Yo, Timmy!" Belt says from the steps of the bus.

Tim pulls one of his headphones off. "Fuck off," he says, but nicely. Belt's a good guy. It's not his fault that Tim hates everyone at the moment.

"Someone wants to talk to you."

"Fuck. Off." Less nice this time.

Brandon turns around. "He says fuck off," he tells whatever bigwig is waiting outside the bus.

"Oh Jesus!" Tim mutters and hustles to the door, preparing an apology for whichever member of the owner's group wanted to meet the pet pony.

But it's not an old white guy and his well-tended wife, it's Stewart in a button down and jeans, his hands in his pockets. "Hey," he says, when he sees Tim. "Fuck you, too. Want a ride?"

"Tell Righetti," Tim says to Belt, hopping off the bus.

"What happened to 'fuck off'?" Belt asks. Tim flips him off over his shoulder.

* * *

Stew still drives the same truck he drove back in California, a blue SUV, a nice one, even though it's getting a little long in the tooth. Tim, who still drives the Mercedes he bought used in the first year of his career even though he has a couple other cars now, likes that about Stewart, even though it's probably more practicality than modesty in Stewart's case.

"We're at the Grand Hyatt," Tim says.

Stewart glances over at him. "You want to go back to the hotel?" he asks. 

"Um," Tim says. "I guess no?"

"Thatta boy." Stewart slaps his knee. He doesn't leave his hand there, but Tim wishes he would.

* * *

Tim isn't sure where they go, exactly. He always gets turned around driving in New York and before he realizes it the bus is pulling up in front of the hotel. But Stew isn't going to the hotel, so they just drive and drive and then they're pulling into a garage with an opening so narrow Tim is convinced that Stew's truck is going to get wedged in between the pillars and have to be cut out with a blowtorch.

"Where are we?" Tim asks.

"Upper East Side," Stew says.

"Oh." That means nothing to Tim. He has no idea why he asked.

"You hungry?" Stew asks and Tim is suddenly starving.

They end up at a Chinese place, at a table in the back corner. The night air was cool out on the street, the wind picking up, but inside the restaurant it's sort of stuffy and warm and close. Everything in New York is smaller than it seems, Tim thinks. He's not sure what that means, exactly, but it feels true. 

"What do you want?" Stew asks, waving a little Chinese lady over.

"Umm...whatever," Tim says. He's had the menu open for a couple of minutes, but hasn't really seen anything on it. The flash of hunger has dissipated in the face of actually making a decision. The last decision he'd made--fastball in--hadn't worked out so well.

"Alright, man," Stew says, and orders for the both of them. If he doesn't speak now, Tim thinks that maybe they'll just sit in silence the entire night until Stew gives up and drives him back to the hotel. 

"So," he clears his throat. "Do you like it here?"

Stewart smiles, a wide, real smile. Stew's a pretty normal looking guy, usually, brown eyes, standard features, but when he smiles, his whole face changes into something sharp and handsome. "I like it anywhere I get to play," he says. "Being a Yankee isn't bad. I miss California, though."

Stew's from California, Tim remembers, Riverside or something. "You going back in September?"

"October," Stews says with another smile. 

"Yeah, you're welcome," Tim says, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, shit, no Timmy." Stew clasps his wrist across the small table. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," Tim says, although he hadn't known. Stew's hand is warm on his skin and slightly rough. Stew has touched him a hundred times, a thousand, on his back, his hip, his shoulders, but he thinks this might be the first time he's felt Stewart's hand on his skin that's not a handshake. He likes it.

The Chinese woman comes back with heaping plates of food and Stew lets his writst go. "So," he says, picking up a fork. "What d'you think you're gonna do next year?"

"No idea," Tim says, taking a bite. The fried rice is hot and fresh and unbelievably good. 

"No?"

Tim shakes his head, swallows. "No. There's a bunch of rumors and shit, but until the offers come in there's no way to know."

"You want to stay?"

Tim hesitates. But this is Stew, and even though he hasn't spoken to him for a while, Stew is Stew. "I do," he admits. "I would. You know, if the offer is right."  


Stew nods, chewing. "Then I hope you do," he says.

"Yeah, well, can we talk about something else?"

"Absolutely, man. Been to the Empire State Building?"

Tim laughs and rice ends up on the table.

* * *

After dinner (Tim pays, waving off Stew's money), they go out onto the street. It's late, but people are still out, walking dogs, holding hands, carrying packages. No one gives them a second look.

"When's your call time?" Stew asks.

"Too fucking early," Tim says. "Ten thirty."

"Yeah, the schedule's always jacked here," Stew says. "Television rights. Sorry."

Tim waits for the next sentence--I should probably get you back--but Stew just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, so Tim just keeps walking, too. It's a beautiful night, cool and clear, and ambling down the city street Tim feels like maybe he's in a movie. The breeze clears his mind, erases all thoughts of the past and the future, until all he's doing is strolling with a full belly and comfortable shoes.

Stew stops under a canopy in front of a white door lined with windows. Past it, there's a well-lit lobby and a guy at a desk. "This is me," he says. "Want to come up?"

All that's waiting for him back at the hotel are a sterile room and his thoughts. "Sure," he says, and goes through the door Stew holds open for him.

"Hey, Mr. Stewart," the guy at the desk says. "Good game."

"I wasn't in tonight, Rico," Stew says, pressing the button for the elevator.

"Part of the team, part of the win, man," Rico says. "Have a good night."

Stew waves at him as the doors slide shut. "Sorry," he says, but Tim isn't bothered. If he were a Yankee fan, he'd be happy, too, which is what he tells Stew.

Stew's apartment is on the top floor, the fifth, one of only four doors on the hallway. It's small by San Francisco standards, and the kitchen is basically in a closet, but it has a full bank of windows facing the trees on the street and Tim knows enough about New York real estate to recognize that it's a nice apartment.

"Sit down." Stew points him to a couch in front of a big flat screen. "You want something to drink?"

"Sure, whatever." Tim sinks in to the cushions of the couch. It's a bumpy fabric that looks like it should be scratchy, but is actually really soft under his palms. 

Stew hands a beer over his shoulder and sits down next to him, but doesn't turn on a light. The streetlights shine in through the leaves on the trees in front of the window, so Tim can see the outline of the furniture in the glow.

"So," Tim says, swallowing a sip. "Tell the truth: how do you like it here, really?"  


Stew's smile is a little sad in the glimmer from the streetlights. "It's good," he says. "Girardi is good. He used to be a catcher, so he gets me. And most of the guys are alright. No problems. It's not as fun as San Francisco, but..." he trails off into a shrug. "Next year's sort of up in the air."

"Yeah," Tim says. This is what worries him. He's about to be in control of his own destiny for the first time in his major league career and what if he decides to leave and ends up somewhere where the manager is an asshole? Or there's another Barry Bonds in the clubhouse? Or a wannabe like Puig? Or, worst of all, what if he goes somewhere and there's just no magic? Stew doesn't have a choice, really, but Tim does. If it gets fucked up, that is on him and him alone.

"It'll work out," Stewart says, as if he's reading Tim's mind. He was always good at knowing what Tim was thinking; that was why they had worked so well together.

"Yeah," Tim says again.

"It will," Stew tells him and hooks an arm over his shoulders.

Tim thinks that maybe he's been waiting for this this whole night, Stew's arm around him. He leans in, until he's up against Stew's side, and closes his eyes. Stew's hand curls around his shoulder, caresses briefly, then slips up into his hair. After a minute, he feels Stew's other hand brush his and then the mostly full beer is being tugged away and set on a side table.

"Tim," Stew says softly.

Tim opens his eyes. "Stew," he says.

Stewart smiles, crooked and charming, the same way he smiled when he saw Tim at the park. "If we're going to do this, you should probably call me Chris."

"Do what?" Tim asks, but he lifts his chin just a little. He doesn't care what the answer is. "Chris."

It's hard to kiss when you're smiling, but they manage the first bit, and then it really sinks in that this is Stew, Stewart, _Chris_ , who has his soft mouth on Tim's and his fingers light on Tim's jaw. Tim's not exactly sure what to do with his hands--he's got one on Chris's knee and the other sort of curled uselessly in his own lap--but then Chris shifts and tilts him backwards onto the cushions and his hands go up to Chris's shoulders naturally.

Chris's hand strokes Tim's side through the dress shirt, warm and firm. He always had such great hands. Chris isn't built like a catcher, thick and powerful. He is tall and lean and his hands are shaped like the rest of him, narrow but strong, and play on Tim's ribs like they are on a piano keyboard, a delicate and knowing touch.

Tim's legs came up when Chris laid him down, and are hooked over Chris's hip, and he feels now, just the barest nudge as Chris pushes against him a little. Tim doesn't know if it's a test or not, but he knows the answer he wants to give, so he arches his back and sighs into Chris's kiss. Chris's fingers tighten on his body, then slide down and curve around his ass, hitching him closer.

Tim drops a hand from Chris's shoulder and fumbles with the buttons on his own shirt. 

"No," Chris says, covering it with his own hand. "Wait."

Tim pauses, panting. If this isn't what Chris meant, then why the kissing? Why would he--

"Let me," Chris says.

Tim lets his hand fall away, trying to suppress a smile. Chris presses his lips to the corner of Tim's mouth, then his jaw, then the curve of his neck just beneath his ear, his fingers tugging at the bottom of Tim's shirt. The buttons come open gradually, one by one, up from the bottom, while Chris kisses his throat, nips his ear, slides warm fingers over newly-exposed skin. When the shirt is finally undone, Chris pushes it open and bends to cover one of Tim's nipples with his mouth. Tim's never been much for that kind of thing--it always seemed like a pause on a road to better places--but something about the dark room or the position or the slight scratch of Chris's beard on his chest makes his cock twitch against the zipper of his jeans. He closes his eyes and spreads his legs as wide as he can, dropping one of them off of Chris's thigh and resting his foot on the floor. In answer to his silent question, Chris puts one hand on Tim's hip, his palm so close to where Tim needs it to be, and squeezes. 

Then he's gone, pulling back, standing up, yanking his own shirt over his head and opening his jeans and pushing them and his boxers off in a single motion. The streetlights glimmer on Chris's shoulder, on the flat plane of his stomach, the head of his cock, before Chris comes back to the couch, crawling between Tim's thighs and covering Tim's body with his naked one.

Tim groans. If he'd been thinking he would have ripped his own pants off when he had the chance, but this seems to be Chris's intention, that he's unclothed and Tim is not. Tim slides his hands down Chris's back and grips his ass. _Catchers_ , he thinks dizzily as Chris flexes. 

Chris pushes himself up on his arms, hovering so that Tim can see him, can see his cock pressed against the rise of Tim's jeans. He moves slowly, once, twice. The sensation is deadened by the denim, but the sight of it, the feel of Chris's ass in his hands... "God," Tim mutters and closes his eyes. If he looks too long, he's going to come in his pants.  
Chris laughs. He shifts again and then the back cushions of the couch are gone, falling with a thump to the floor behind them, and Chris is spread out alongside him, his head on one folded arm, smiling. Tim grabs for his fly, but again his hand is covered by Chris's, and Chris kisses him, his tongue slipping into Tim's mouth while he squeezes Tim's erection through his jeans. 

"I said, let me," he whispers.

Tim drops his hand to the cushion. He's turned, just slightly, toward Chris so he can't see what happens next, which somehow makes it better. Chris's fingers walk lightly up his zipper, brush the delicate skin of his stomach, slide briefly beneath the waistband of his jeans, run up his skin to his throat and back down. Tim can feel every nerve ending on his bare skin, but his jeans are thick as armor. He wants out of them, but he knows that if he makes a move Chris will just stop him again, so there's nothing to do but breathe in Chris's hot breath and wait and shiver.

Chris presses his hand into the crease of the denim where Tim's thigh meets his hip. He's so hard. The anticipation of Chris's touch is almost more intense than the touch itself. When Chris scratches his nails over Tim's covered cock, Tim shudders. "You're killing me," he whispers.

Chris kisses him again. 

Tim's distracted by Chris's mouth for a second and doesn't notice the fingers manipulating the button on his jeans until suddenly the pressure eases and Chris has light fingertips on the soft cotton of his underwear. There's a wet spot already, Tim's pretty sure, but if there is that's Chris's fault anyways. His stroke is soft, almost teasing, catching the ridge of Tim's cock over and over again through the material. Tim can't help but move, pulsing his hips upward, trying to get closer, harder, _more_ , but Chris's hand moves with him, always just brushing him.

When Tim stops, consciously wills himself to hold _still_ , chest heaving with breath, he's rewarded with Chris's fingers slipping into the waistband of his underwear (if he had known, he would have worn something sexy, not just plain old grey boxer briefs) and lifting it over the head of his cock. The cool air on his erection gives Tim goosebumps everywhere and makes him shiver.

Chris pushes Tim's jeans down a little, so they catch on the curve of his buttock in the back, exposing him but not letting him move. Then his hand comes back, his warm gentle hand, this time stroking the hard flesh of Tim's erection directly but not firmly. 

"You should breathe," Chris says, and then covers Tim's mouth with his in a direct contradiction of his own advice. The kissing helps, though, because Chris is good at it and because it brings him closer and reminds Tim that Chris is right there and Chris is naked. 

In between kisses (deep kisses, kisses that make his spine bend and take his breath), Tim rests a hand on Chris's bare hip, squeezing. "Come on, Stew," he murmurs, flexing his hips. "Please."

"What do you want?" Chris asks, circling Tim's cock with his hand but not really touching it.

Tim shakes his head on the couch cushion. "I dunno," he says, pressing Chris's hip. "Anything. _More._ "

Chris pulls his hand away entirely and curves it around Tim's jaw, holding him still for another kiss, then another, and another. Tim's still hard, still throbbing, but something has changed. He finds himself stroking Chris's hip. "I want you to fuck me," he says.

* * *

Tim's on his stomach, hips propped up on a throw pillow. They had tried it with Tim on his back, but the couch was too soft to get a good angle; Tim had felt like he was sinking into quicksand. This is better. The angle is better, but also, face down, he doesn't have to look at Chris. He's not as exposed.

Tim doesn't have a ton of experience to compare this to, but Chris is good, steady and confident in what he's doing. By the time he positions himself behind Tim, spreading Tim's legs a bit more with his knees, Tim is hard against the pillow. Chris enters him carefully, considerately, but it's still enough to force Tim's head back with pleasure. He's not going to last long. 

Chris's hands squeeze his hips and then he starts to move, getting into a rhythm that takes Tim away from himself. He doesn't have to think when this is happening. He can just let go. They had always been good at falling into a rhythm, him and Stew. 

He is rubbing himself against the pillow in time with Chris's strokes, head bowed--getting there, getting there--when Chris stops. 

Chris is braced over him, perfectly still; Tim can see one of his hands pressing into the cushion next to his head. "What?" he pants, glancing over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Chris asks. "Are you...okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." He reaches back, groping for Chris's thigh. "Come on."

"Timmy, hey," Chris says. "I feel like, I dunno, you're not here."

"I'm here," Tim protests. He's getting annoyed. What the fuck does that mean, he's not here? He's about to not be here, if Stew doesn't fucking fuck him al-

"What do you want?" Chris asks.

"I don't--"

Chris's hands on his hips are stern, almost angry. "Look, I'm not into fucking a zombie, so if you don't--"

"--tell me how much you want me," Tim says, before he can stop himself.

He feels Chris pause, then there's a shift and Chris is covering him, belly to back, his mouth hot on Tim's skin. "How much?" he says, between kisses to the nape of Tim's neck. He braces one hand on Tim's hip. "I've wanted this since I first saw you," he says. He moves inside Tim, but it's his words that are making Tim hard again, making him writhe. "I wanted this at spring training. And then--" his other hand curls around Tim's wrist "--that whole season." He mouths Tim's ear. "Every time I caught you. Every game--" His rhythm matches his breath, in and out, slow, relentless. "--I would think about you--" His voice rasps. "--every night. I've always wanted you."

It happens suddenly, almost unexpectedly, Tim's orgasm ripping through him, hunching his back, making him shout into the pillow. Chris follows moments later, his breath roaring in Tim's ear like a hurricane. Then there's nothing except the weight of Chris on his back, the moment of calm after a cleansing storm.

"Fuck," Chris mutters, after a moment, pushing himself up and out and away. Tim closes his eyes against the sudden feeling of absence and says nothing. Chris trails a hand over Tim's spine and then he's off the couch. Tim waits until he hears the faucet running and pushes himself up into a sitting position. Both the pillow and the couch are disgusting--Tim swipes at the couch cushion with a hand, but it's going to take a steamer or something. Tim wipes his hand on his thigh. He feels...he doesn't know what he feels. Good, but also cautious, like sadness is a man waiting for him just around the corner.

"Here," Chris says, handing him a glass of water and sitting down next to him, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Tim sips politely. He doesn't have any idea what to say now. This might have been a mistake. He wonders where his clothes are, and if he can find enough of them without turning on a light. He wonders how hard it will be to hail a cab on this street.

Tim finishes the water and hands the glass over. It's getting a little weird, sitting here naked in the dark. "Thanks."

Chris surprises him by stroking his hair back from his ear. "Are you growing it out again?"

Tim shrugs. "Dunno. I haven't thought about it."

He can see Chris's smile in the dark. "What _do_ you think about?"

"Too much," Tim says. It comes out sounding more weary than he meant it. 

Chris leans in and kisses him, firm but not pressing. His arms come around Tim and before Tim realizes it, he's being pulled forward, until he's lying across Chris's body, his head on Chris's chest, Chris's hand on the curve of his ass. Chris's body is narrow and firm, and his thin layer of chest hair is smooth under Tim's cheek. He can hear the heavy thud of Chris's heartbeat. 

"I'm glad you came over," Chris says. 

"Me too," Tim answers. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." 

Tim slides over until he's on one elbow on the cushion, propped up so he can see as much of Chris's face as the darkness allows. "What you said," he begins, but then the darkness isn't cover enough. He can feel his face getting red. "What you said during, um..."

"It's true," Chris says. "I mean, I wouldn't have if I were still there--"

"No, of course, of course. I...just had no idea."

"That was sort of the point," Chris says. His hand is warm in the small of Tim's back.

"But it was true," Tim says. He's thinking of all the times Stew came out to the mound, his hand on Tim's waist, all of Stew's smiles as they came off the field, all of the afternoons Stew sat in the clubhouse with a book, his feet up on a chair. All that time, Tim was there, somewhere inside Chris's head. It's comforting to know that he's been there all this time. 

"If you were a nice person, you would tell me you thought about me, too," Chris teases.

"I didn't," Tim admits, squeezing himself to Chris. "But I missed you so much after you left. You don't even know, man."

"Prove it," Chris starts to say, but before he can even finish the words, Tim's mouth is on his.

***The End***


End file.
